


Hold Me Against You

by paien



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Reuniting the fam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paien/pseuds/paien
Summary: Ziio and Ratonhnhaké:ton are out hunting when the young boy stumbles upon an injured man in the forest.One shot (for now)!





	Hold Me Against You

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, it's been a while! I actually wrote this a couple months ago but haven't had the chance to post it yet (school has been NUTS). I'm hoping to catch up with everything over the holidays :)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

“Can I go set up these traps, Ista? Please? And the bait too?”

Ziio holds back a long-suffering sigh as, without waiting for a reply, six-year-old Ratonhnhaké:ton grabs a handful of supplies from her basket and runs off. The boy is more headstrong and impulsive than any child raised amongst her tribe and—much to Ziio’s chagrin—she still has not decided whether her son inherited the traits from Haytham or herself.

“Do not go far, Ratonhnhaké:ton!” she yells, not because she expects him to stay close, but because she knows the noise should scare off any nearby predators.

Ziio follows the trail of traps that Ratonhnhaké:ton leaves behind, pausing to adjust the contraptions properly. She shakes her head at the haphazard set up, smiling indulgently at her son’s work. She will need to remind him how to correctly lay the traps.

“Ista! Ista!”

She looks up hurriedly at the urgency in his tone. “Ratonhnhaké:ton?” she asks as he lumbers through the brush and hurtles toward her.

“There is a man lying on the ground!” He waves his arms wildly, gesturing for her to follow. “He is hurt!”

“Was there anyone else?” Ziio asks, frowning. If he did not recognize the man, then it must be a colonist. “You must be careful.”

The war has grown fiercely over the years since Haytham had left—since _she_ had left Haytham. She hopes that it is not his Templar Order that has returned to disrupt her people.

Chastised, Ratonhnhaké:ton scuffs his feet in the dirt. “No, Ista—just two bodies. But the third man is still alive!”

She sighs, abandoning the traps to take Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hand. “Alright. Show me.”

* * *

When Ratonhnhaké:ton finally stops pulling on her hand to carefully step over a dead body, Ziio’s eyes widen as her gaze settles upon the one remaining survivor.

“No…” she breathes, dropping to her knees beside the battered and bloody body lying slumped on its side.

Heavy bruises paint his skin, with his features bathed in so much blood that she scarcely recognizes him. Ziio gently turns Haytham’s head to stare into his bleary eyes, but any recognition that he might show is lost—drowned in the unrelenting waves of pain that leave him catatonic to her sudden appearance.

Has it really been six years?

He is shirtless, clad only in torn, crimson-stained trousers, and unburdened by his customary jacket and cloak. Even still, he is taller and broader than her. Ziio knows she will be unable to move him.

She would rather it be seven years than to see him like this.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” she says, but her clever boy is already nodding and on his feet.

“I will find help,” he says. Although his eyes are wide with trepidation, his voice is steady. Ratonhnhaké:ton juts his skinny chin forward and gives a jerky nod. “I will be back soon.”

Ziio’s throat tightens—he is like his father in the way that he shackles his duties, performing them with pride. She glances briefly at Haytham’s unmoving form before squeezing Ratonhnhaké:ton’s small hand.

“Go quickly,” she says. “And be careful.”

She watches as he darts away, being careful to conceal himself in the foliage just as she has taught him. Assured that Ratonhnhaké:ton will mind his surroundings, Ziio turns her attention to Haytham, her brows knitting together in concern. His skin is pale and clammy, and his eyes are now shut tight with pain. His shallow, laboured breathing is almost inaudible, but the raspy inhales are heavy to her ears.

Ziio removes her outer fur layer and gently drapes it over Haytham’s cold bare chest. Even after all this time, his features are achingly familiar. She cups his stubble-roughened cheek, eyes darkening as she catalogues the angry scratches on his face. Smooth, gaping lacerations mar his torso, too deliberately placed to be anything other than calculated torture.

The injury that concerns her most, though, is the short knife that almost pierces clean through his left thigh, the surrounding fabric of his breeches completely soaked with blood. Ziio hisses between her teeth, ripping off his other pant leg to wrap the fabric tightly above the wound.

Despite her best efforts, she is unable to bind his leg without jostling it slightly, and the agonized whimper that escapes him is so uncharacteristically vulnerable that she jerks her hand away.

Then she is enraged—incensed—at what he has had to endure. Even after they had separated, their final argument explosive in its ferocity, she has never wished him harm. Now, to witness this barbarism… Ziio cradles his head in her lap and strokes his hair soothingly.

Haytham groans, instinctively turning to press his face against her.

Whoever has done this, she will kill them herself.

* * *

Hours pass without any sign of Ratonhnhaké:ton, and Ziio is torn between remaining with Haytham and searching for her son. Worse, she is growing increasingly concerned that Haytham will succumb to his injuries if he is not adequately cared for soon.

The hard ground beneath her is uncomfortable, her lower back aching from sitting in the same position for so long, but she has just finished tending to his wounds as best she can and she refuses to disturb Haytham’s uneasy rest.

Have her tribespeople ordered Ratonhnhaké:ton to remain in the village? She would not blame them if they did—one more dead colonist means nothing to them compared to the safety of their children. But with her son’s well-being secured, Ziio knows she will not—cannot—abandon Haytham. Not like this.

Loud voices sound maliciously nearby, and Ziio quickly moves so that she is crouched protectively over Haytham’s body.

“Should we check on Master—the traitor’s body?”

She inhales sharply. _The traitor?_

“Leave him—I’ve left Henry and John to watch him. They will meet us later.”

“‘Sides, the rate that village is burning, the only thing left of him’ll be char.”

_Burning?_

No… _Ratonhnhaké:ton_ . Her _home_.

The men’s voices fade as they depart the area, but the crippling horror that they have delivered remains in the acrid smell of smoke drifting towards her, the pounding of her heart, the blood that stains Haytham’s skin.

Ziio shudders, feels the sharp sting of unwanted tears coming to her eyes. She leans down and presses her lips against his for the last time, her hand trembling over his chest. Once, she had savoured his kisses; now, his mouth is still and cold against hers.

“I am sorry.”

She must find their son, though. Surely he would forgive her of that.

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton stumbles blindly through the smoke, his lungs burning under the immense cloud of smoke that has descended upon the village, and the skin of his hands raw from clawing at Kanen'tó:kon’s body trapped beneath the rubble.

He hears someone from his tribe calling his name, but he does not look back. He will not go with them if Ista is not there. Ratonhnhaké:ton will find her where he left her by the white man’s side.

The smog thins as he runs farther from the remains of his village, his head still throbbing from his encounter with _Charles Lee_. He is so intent on running that he does not even see the bodies of the dead men until he trips over them, landing painfully on his burnt palms.

But Ista is not there—only the man is where Ratonhnhaké:ton had last seen him. This time, though, he is conscious and alert, sitting upright against a tree.

“There is a fire spreading, boy. You need to leave,” the man says, his voice strained.

Ratonhnhaké:ton does not answer. This man is important to his mother, although he does not understand why. He holds his hand out as if to help the man up, but receives only a blank stare in reply.

“What are you doing?” the man says impatiently. “Go!”

“There is still time.” Ratonhnhaké:ton tugs ineffectually at the man’s arm. “Come with me!”

Blue eyes observe him curiously. “You are brave. I’ll give you that.” Then he lays his head against the bark with a tired exhale. “But my time in this world is over, child.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton swallows the lump in his throat as the man’s voice grows faint. “Please,” he begs finally. “You have to help me find my mother.”

The man stares at him pityingly. “I am in no condition to help you.”

“But you can!” Ratonhnhaké:ton insists. “She was with you last!”

“Ah.” A considering pause as he studies Ratonhnhaké:ton. “So that must be who wrapped my wounds. A kind woman, to waste supplies on myself.” The man huffs and slowly drags himself to his feet, blood blooming in the cloth around his injured leg.

“Can you walk?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asks, wide-eyed and gaping at the man’s leg as he realizes the extent of the stranger’s injuries. Perhaps… Charles Lee is responsible for this, too?

“I will, if this is to be my last act.” He laughs humorlessly. “May God never claim that I did not try in this life.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton wrinkles his nose at the bizarre words.

“Now, where is your village?” The man’s features are twisted into a pained grimace as he gingerly limps alongside Ratonhnhaké:ton.

“Burned,” he answers quietly. “All of it. My best friend—gone.”

Silence, except for the man’s laboured breathing. Then he says roughly, “We will find your mother, child.”

* * *

“What do you mean he is not with you?” Ziio asks, eyes flashing fiercely as she confronts her tribe where they have gathered, temporarily safe from the fire.

“The boy ran off into the forest. We could not reach him.”

She hisses her displeasure and says, “Then I will have to find him myself.”

She cannot lose Ratonhnhaké:ton as well as Haytham.

When she returns to the area that she has left Haytham, she desperately hopes that Ratonhnhaké:ton is waiting for her. Instead, she finds only the two dead bodies lying on the ground. Stomach dropping, she follows the trail of blood that marks Haytham’s path. Has someone returned to torture him further, or is he traveling of his own accord?

If he _is_ walking by himself then he certainly cannot have gone far. Ziio increases her pace and is rewarded by the muffled sounds of a child’s voice in the distance.

She is running now, the sheer weight of her relief threatening to buckle her legs with each stride. Finally, she sees them, and the sight before her is almost enough to overwhelm her already tumultuous emotions.

She should have known better than to underestimate Haytham’s tenacity. Face pale with exhaustion, he lies slumped against a fallen log, but still watches his companion intently. Curled into his side is Ratonhnhaké:ton, who is visibly upset but is currently regaling his father with stories of life in their village.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” Ziio cries, stooping down to embrace them both.

“Ista!”

“Ziio?” Haytham asks weakly, his tired eyes squinting in confusion. “No, that can’t be right…”

She disentangles herself from Ratonhnhaké:ton’s arms and cups Haytham’s face with her hands. She waits until he is focused on her, stroking his cheek with her thumb patiently.

“Ziio?” he tries again, and she wants to weep at the raw, yearning desire in his eyes.

“Yes,” she whispers and leans in for a gentle kiss.

This time, his response is shaky but _alive._


End file.
